


divine fire

by Zerrat



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F, Hate Sex, Incest, Pre-Fall, Pre-Runeterra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 02:30:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10233704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zerrat/pseuds/Zerrat
Summary: Morgana visits Kayle in the aftermath of her Ascension to Judicator. For all that Kayle has become godly, what dark creature has her sister made of herself?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LogosMinusPity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogosMinusPity/gifts).



> Actually written ages and ages ago in like, July 2015 for Logos' birthday. I'd consigned this to the drawer after giving her the g doc, as I couldn't figure out what needed to change in the piece. 
> 
> Turns out? Absolutely nothing.
> 
> Bitter, conflicted Kayle falling for Morgana's wiles honestly gives me life.

In the wake of the Rites of Ascension, Kayle doesn't spare breath for the foolish, self-indulgent celebration that surrounds her. She alone has made it through the fire of judgement, the sole worthy successor to the gods and arbiters of old. She stands apart from even the most devout of her followers, before an altar of carved stone still soot-streaked and hot from divine fire, the taste of smoke and burning flesh seeping through her every sense.

It's unwelcome, a link to the past when she should be their future, and it is with silence that she looks down on the righteous, waiting for their _joy_ to subside.

Slowly, they begin to realise the childishness of their actions, the elation fading from each expression as the hard truth finally dawns on them. Kayle's reckoning as their leader, their Judicator, their guiding light - it has all been a part of the plan.

But only _part_.

Kayle closes her eyes, still tasting ash in the place of victory. Their winding road through the darkness stretches on before them, endless, and for now...

A familiar presence tugs at Kayle's awareness, insistent, the prickle racing right through to her pinions, stirring the traces of down at the back of her neck. The insistent, bitter tang of smoke on her tongue vanishes.

She crosses her arms and looks up, and perhaps it's luck and perhaps it's purpose, but it's just in time to spot a shadow streak across the pale morning sky. Kayle's mouth tightens, reading intent as just easily as she draws breath.

Perhaps it had been too much to hope Morgana would content herself with distant seething.

The eyes of the dedicated are still on Kayle, however, hungry for the guidance she has been chosen by the Maker to give. Sharply, she inclines her head - while she doesn't bother with words, they understand. In the vast, abandoned halls of the cathedral, Kayle alone will hold vigil as she contemplates her ascension.

When she emerges, she'll have an answer for the future laid out before her, but privately, she can admit to ulterior motive.

If Morgana chooses to make herself known, then perhaps it is best that an audience not be present. A shiver runs through her again, edged and hot. She sets her stance, impassive, immovable, her shoulders square and rigid and _tense_ , and she's safe beyond the cold, featureless gold of her helm.

Kayle watches the last of her followers depart from the cathedral, heading for the long-abandoned living quarters that will now serve as their stronghold, until at last the great doors swing shut. The silence of the long-abandoned cathedral is nigh oppressive, but it's the the weight of her new task that sits oddly on her shoulders, as heavy as the enchanted armour she'd been given to fulfill the dreams of gods and protectors alike.

She exhales, tasting blood, tasting _burning_. She cannot stomach considering the price of failure.

As the moments crawl on, the sunlight through the great, open maw above her growing stronger, she prickles again, the familiar tug beyond her navel sharpening. Kayle raises her gaze just in time to track her sister, cast in the whites and golds of new morning light as she descends from the church's open monument to the heavens.

Kayle's expression doesn't change, the muscles of her face seemingly frozen beneath the safety of her helm. She doesn't shift no matter the powerful gusts of wind raised by Morgana's vast white wings, but the movement of air through her feathers, through the gaps in her helm seems dwarfed by the sheer _hum_ of magic through her flesh, reverberating down to her bones.

She's never felt it with such clarity as at that moment, divine fire still curling through her own veins, granting her strength the likes of which she's never dared dream. She watches Morgana straighten, watches her sister adjust her robes with graceful ease, as if unaware of the breathtaking magic lurking just beneath her skin.

Kayle wonders, then. Has she ever truly paid attention to the ancient power her sister studied? Her jaw firms, embers stirring deep in her chest.

"Morgana." The name is harsh on Kayle's lips, unspoken demand loaded into each syllable. The sound of it carries hoarse and jagged on the air, still torn and warped by fire. She watches her sister approach, her gaze flickering over the preternatural grace bleeding from every curve and feather.

Morgana's teeth flash in quicksilver wit at the name, there one moment and gone just as quickly as she drawls, "Sister. Where in the world have your manners gone? Burned away, perhaps?"

Kayle doesn't allow herself flinch at the epithet, so carefully chosen to goad, to expose the few flaws in her walls and present them for Morgana's examination.

Sister or no, she has faced judgement the likes of which Morgana will never comprehend. Weakness, flaw, _imperfection..._ She'll no longer allow any that satisfaction, not even her storm-sister.

"You made your opposition to my ascension obvious even to the blindest of fools," Kayle tells her, through with the games. Her lips flatten when Morgana shrugs a shoulder, guilty as charged. Guilty as _always._ Narrowing her eyes, Kayle adds, "I had my doubts you'd make yourself known here at all."

That earns her a bark of a laugh, and a million nights spent in Morgana's company flash to mind before Kayle can stem them, the floodgates burst open by the mere sound of her sister's sardonic mirth.

"Perhaps your little minions simply forgot to provide me with my invitation, Kayle. A pity. I've not seen you for a thousand years--and that's hardly by _my_ design." Morgana's heeled boots echo on the exposed marble tiling, a steady, sharp beat that drives deep beneath Kayle's skin. "Your infatuation with an echo chamber of misinformation and lies is what troubles me, not your... ascension."

The word twists her sister's full lips, rendering something beautiful into ugliness. Kayle can't stand the dichotomy, looking instead to the mosaics of the righteous, judge-magisters and arbiters on the walls around her. Her predecessors had once ruled this world, passionless but for the administration of justice.

It's the ideal, one she has vowed to reach every time, but she's far too aware of the scalding heat inside her, lurking deep within the hollow of her chest and only given fuel with every word her sister speaks.

Morgana has always been... concerning. Even now, Kayle's followers whisper behind her back, in her ear, wondering aloud how she can stand kinship with one who so clearly scorns all they hoped to achieve.

She's not yet ready to call her sister a heretic, however, for all that Morgana's poisoned blade of a tongue implies otherwise, for all that with such _ease_ does it Kayle's cold logic to desperate heat.

Kayle turns away from Morgana, clasping her hands behind her back as she lowers her gaze to altar, tracing the stone, the whirls of soot where she'd been scoured clean of sin and reborn.

While she can still taste ash in her mouth, sticky and bitter and pervasive... she cannot recall if it hurt. Had Morgana been there, watching from the shadows even then? Kayle wonders for a moment if that matters, but just as quickly, she discards the thought entirely.

"What troubles me is how often a _researcher_ \--" Kayle cuts off, surprised at the derision she's loaded into just a word, "--concerns herself with the politics she claims to _spurn_."

It's an insult, a challenge, a judgement all in one. Despite her every efforts to ignore Morgana's goading, to be cold and righteous and _better_ , Kayle isn't so foolish as to know she's been drawn in. Centuries, she's had to cool her temper, but as it rises up in her chest, potent as though it were only yesterday she'd argued law and scripture... Kayle can't find it in herself to care.

"Are you not my concern, Kayle?" Morgana laughs, the sound of it clear as a bell, achingly beautiful but for the twist of transgression implied in her every word. She moves, graceful, and Kayle can't help but find her gaze drawn by the sway of her hips, hypnotic and serpentine. Heat froths in her, and she nearly twitches as she listens to Morgana continue.

"Our Maker created us together, thunder to follow lightning each and every time." Morgana doesn't stop moving, not for a moment, and a part of Kayle likens it to the circle of a bird of prey, for all she has nothing to fear of her sister. "I suppose the question you should ask yourself is this; can either of us truly keep our distance, or are we fated to face the future in lockstep?"

Kayle crosses her arms, her grasp on her forearms tightening as she watches Morgana circle around to her front, every sense trained on her sister's body. She watches until she's uncomfortably aware of the whisper of Morgana's breath, the click of her heels on old marble, the heady scent of her perfume, the shift of air from her wings as she moves. Even from here, Kayle can practically taste the bitter magical residue on her skin, breathe it deep into her lungs. Archaic power flickered beneath her skin--barely contained, so _obvious_ now that Kayle knows to look.

Perhaps Kayle might have use for research into the forbidden - surely keeping the peace was as worthy an end as there could be, no matter the means to it? She rather doubts her followers would allow her to bring Morgana into the fold, however. Her political views were... inflammatory.

Yes, Kayle decides, traitorous heat worming its way through her insides, her gaze flickering over the gold of Morgana's long tresses, across the glorious white of her wings. She _will_ need to do something about Morgana and her views. But what? The answer does not immediately present itself, and after a moment, Kayle turns her attention from it almost too eagerly.

It's another question for another time. Kayle is certain the Maker's desires will eventually make themselves known, and she will carry it out without question.

"You will tell me why you've come," Kayle tells her, and it's a relief to hear her words don't betray her - they're cold, commanding and flat. She's the Judicator, and Morgana...

"So imperious. Is this your first order as Judicator, sister? One destined to go unfulfilled?" Morgana asks, the word _unfulfilled_ falling slow and languid from her lips in a way that sends a prickle down Kayle's spine, shivers through the down between her shoulders.

Her voice is edged with a heat she cannot quite stifle as she snaps, "Morgana!"

"I see your sense of humour has continued to deteriorate. You may be even less amusing than I recall." For all the derision of her words, Morgana smiles for her, the expression breathtakingly beautiful. She comes to a stop before Kayle, just a pace away - so easy to reach out and embrace. So easy to crush.

"You assume an ulterior motive," Morgana continues after a moment, her blue eyes intent, searching on the blank visage of Kayle's helm. She digs, but what for? "Perhaps I came to wish my darling elder sister the best in her new role."

Kayle's mouth tightens, and blinking, she exhales, seeking calm. "Do not condescend me."

"Why ever not, when you make it so easy?" Morgana laughs again, then, as though it were a joke, all a _joke_.

Kayle's grasp on her own forearms grows tight, the leather of her gloves groaning, the sole betrayer of her choked-down rage. Did Morgana think to mock her? After all she'd been through, the power she'd taken for herself? Her patience is always so _thin_ these days, and Morgana has always known just where to press.

It's a pity the reaction doesn't escape Morgana's notice. Those unsettlingly blue eyes light up, as if Kayle's anger has been everything she's ever desired.

"Anger, Kayle? Was I mistaken in believing the Judicator is above all worldly ties?" Morgana's delight fades, her mouth twisting in bitterness as she adds, "Was this whole charade of separation _not_ for such a purpose?"

Kayle doesn't reply immediately, turning her face aside from the truth of the accusation. She's never bothered voicing her reasons to Morgana, so sure of her sisters obvious opposition to all she strives to be.

"You mistake righteousness for mere anger," Kayle says, and she cannot keep the contempt from her voice.

"And you mistake delusion for fact. Perhaps I preferred your... _passion._ " Morgana's eyes haven't left Kayle, almost a physical caress against flesh and feather. "Tell me, Kayle. Do you notice have any idea of the way which your... _followers_ watch you?"

Kayle's eyes narrow. "All eyes are on me. As is right."

"Oh, it's not your _righteousness_ that draws them, sister." Morgana shrugs, the silk of her skirt whispering over the marble as she advances within Kayle's space, closer than any have dared to get in centuries now. Her voice is low as she continues, a dark purr that sends Kayle's down prickling, "The ones that don't desire your genocidal rage wish only for what pleasures you might bestow with your body."

Kayle doesn't flinch as Morgana reaches out, laying the palm of her hand against the side of her helm, foolishly unafraid of divine fire as the worst of heretics. Exhaling softly, Kayle tilts her chin as she listens to the gentle scrape of Morgana's nails against enchanted metal, to the catch of them in carved runes as they trailed to the very edge.

Morgana finally slips her hand beneath the helm, grasping Kayle's chin with just a hook of her fingers, her nails rasping on skin. Kayle cannot find it in herself to avert her gaze as her sister murmurs, "Perhaps I find myself growing possessive of that which belongs to me."

"You well know I turned my back on that." Centuries on, Kayle still hasn't forgotten the pleasures of the flesh, not the way she yearns to. She still dreams of it, of entangling herself so completely with Morgana she loses sight of who she is, just as so long ago.

Now, she's the Judicator, a role in a script she's been fated to play since the very beginning. With this ascension, she can be more than she is, something the people will look up to, revere. And yet, no matter how she twists and turns, even beyond the mask and helm she craves Morgana with a fierceness she can scarcely keep leashed.

Anger, desire, grief, _attachment_...

"Just how much trouble will that ability to lie to yourself get you into?" Morgana asks, her voice soft as if wondering aloud. Her touch strays down, instead reaching to the arch of Kayle's wings, and in a moment of alarm, Kayle knows she cannot allow her sister such an opening - such _weakness_. She catches Morgana's wrist in her gloved hands, squeezing tighter and tighter, until pain flickers across that beautiful face, until she hears her sister's breath catch.

The sound of it's addictive, only bringing to mind far too many other depraved nights spent together.

It's just a taste, just a memory, and for that alone, it's wholly unsatisfying.

"Perhaps I should show you," Kayle grits out before she can know better, tightening her grasp on Morgana's wrist until she's certain she's bruised the flesh. Her own breath is coming hard and fast, she realises vaguely, still twisting Morgana's arm away from her. Just the proximity is weakening her resolve, her control wavering dangerously as she says, "Show you your _place_."

Something dark and hungry flashes in the scorching intensity of Morgana's blue eyes, and Kayle's stomach tightens, the safety of holy armour and helm no longer enough to protect her from her sister's consideration.

"You'd just love that, wouldn't you, sister?" Morgana steps in, leaning in close and inhaling deep. Kayle refuses to give her sister ground, no matter how the heady scent of magic and perfume and desire makes her heart skip a beat. Morgana's free hand settles against the side of Kayle's helm once more, her palm flat and radiating intoxicating heat, _power_. "Why don't you show me, then? In front of all your patron saints of old?"

Her words are mocking and leading, shaped like barbs to seek Kayle's every flaw with instinctive, intimate knowledge.

Kayle twists Morgana's wrist a fraction once more, just to hear the reluctant, pained groan wring its way free of her sister's lips. She doesn't have pity for it, for Morgana has always played such games, has always _been_ temptation.

It's something Kayle should be above now, no matter the roar of heat and rage in her stomach, the way her mouth has gone dry and she cannot quite--

"Is your will really so tepid that you'd hesitate at the cusp, sister?" Morgana demands, so close she might as well have pressed those lips against Kayle's helm, her breath a hiss between her teeth. "Did you trade your resolve as well as your freedom of thought for your power?"

Morgana doesn't respect what Kayle has done, what she's become, and that is no surprise. Kayle snarls beneath her breath, detachment fleeing her her faltering grasp as she jerks her sister even closer.

In a single, smooth motion, Morgana pushes her helm from her head, the sound of it clattering to the marble floors behind them ignored entirely as Kayle instead seizes Morgana's mouth with her own. This, too, is instinct - the mash of her teeth against Morgana's full lower lip, curl of her tongue, furious and raw and before the eyes of every judicator the Maker has bestowed on this world. It's in the very place Kayle has sworn to be righteous, just, detached.

It inflames her now, her mind too hazy and too _hot_ , fever driving her as she instead sets her hand to Morgana's cheek, the other tangling rough in loose blonde hair.

"Better," Morgana tells her, drawing back just a moment to press their foreheads together, her eyes like fire, her smile a cruel curve as she brushes loose hair behind Kayle's ear. " _Kayle._ "

" _You-_ " Kayle tries again. Her breath hisses out between her teeth as Morgana's incisor instead catches her lip, the sharp tang of blood blooming on her tongue.

The taste stokes the fire in her gut, and blindly, Kayle slips her hand from Morgana's cheek, instead grasping for her sister's hip with no thought to bruises she'd draw. The pale silk of Morgana's dress pools between Kayle's fingers, the warmth of flesh creeping hot through the leather of her gloves.

Every half-hearted lie Kayle has told herself in the years since their last tryst evaporates from her mind, blasted away before the simple, pure fire of _want_. It's drawn to the surface like venom from her core, goaded by Morgana's vicious words and wicked mouth.

Of course Morgana has intended this outcome. Kayle's known that much since the start, and yet still she gives in, _every time_.

It's ugly. Shameful. Indecent. _Perfect._ Morgana accepts it all the same, the jagged, needy kisses with too much bite and too much rage, disproportionate to a crime not yet committed. Kayle can't bring herself to care, even when the fingers Morgana twists in her hair and plumage begin to hurt, roughening her breath until her head swims, until all she can think of is her sister.

The bond between them has always moved to depravity without so much as a stutter, the natural progression of their duality, their shared flesh. For all her denial before, now Kayle revels in it, pushing at the loose robes at Morgana's shoulders with desperate hands, baring warm skin to her mouth.

She leaves vivid red marks across throat and collarbone even as she buries her fingers back in the plumage between Morgana's shoulderblades. Even with the leather of Kayle's gloves separating feathers from flesh, memory of silken pinions and soft down against her fingertips enough to make her breath catch in her throat, her mouth hesitating over the angry red mark she'd been making against Morgana's shoulder.

All too vividly does Kayle recall the nights she'd spent caring for those wings, straightening and resettling each and every feather with the utmost attention, simply enjoying the way her sister had fidgeted, arched and sighed beneath the touch. Only at the end would Kayle let her fingers stray between Morgana's legs, to at last relieve the slick heat that formed at her core.

It makes her forget the here and now for a moment - that she's angry with her sister, that she's the Judicator, that her hunger for Morgana's touch is a sin even cleansing, divine fire could never scorch from her.

"Perhaps you have second thoughts, Kayle?" Morgana asks, turning half a pace and setting her mouth to the shell of Kayle's ear, her breath a warm hum.

Kayle's mouth twists, and she tightens her fingers in Morgana's plumage. "Merely remembering."

Morgana laughs then, steel beneath the softness, and she takes Kayle's face in both her hands. Her kiss is intoxicating, the slide of her tongue languid, a satisfied murmur rising up in her throat the moment Kayle releases the feathers in her grasp instead to take her hips again.

"Allow me to free you from the burden of thought, as you seemingly crave," Morgana tells her between one kiss and the next, and through sheer force of will she bears down on Kayle, shorter stature and lack of muscle be damned.

Kayle can do naught but give ground under the onslaught until her heels and the backs of her thighs brush up against the altar at the fore of the cathedral, the soot-streaked stone still warm to touch from the fires of the ritual that had proven her Judicator. She leans back on the altar as Morgana breaks from their kiss, falling to her knees and begins to work at Kayle's belt with sure hands.

Swallowing the sudden dryness in her mouth, Kayle knots her fingers in Morgana's loose golden hair. She tightens her grasp, enough for it to hurt, enough for her demand to be implicit, and only then does she spare a glance for the cathedral doors. They remain closed, her followers barred from the most holy of chambers by her word alone.

Kayle exhales. None can know of this... transgression.

"Concerned we may have company?" Morgana asks, her voice low with contempt. Kayle's gaze snaps back down to where her sister is still on her knees, the red drawstrings of Kayle's breeches wound about her fingers in an impossible snarl.

"The absolute obedience of my followers has never been in question," Kayle tells her tightly as Morgana tugs her breeches down, the sudden cold air against her sending a shiver down her spine. Mouth twisting, Kayle urges Morgana in closer with a sharp pull, an unspoken demand for more no matter the blackness of the sin she longs for.

Morgana's lips, still red and swollen from the harsh drag of Kayle's tongue and teeth, curl into a smile more sardonic than warm, but the important thing is that she _obeys._

She settles her palms flat against Kayle's bared thighs, the tips of her fingertips trailing goosebumps in their wake as she says, "And that, dear sister, is always the _concern_."

Kayle's irritation spikes, and she releases her grasp on Morgana's hair with a jerk, mouth twisting. She should have expected this, she told herself furiously. "If you desire time to talk politics, Morgana, then allow me to--"

"Enough of the hot air, Kayle," Morgana cuts in, tone sharp enough that Kayle hesitates. "Today? I simply desire the chance to watch you _writhe_."

At some point, Morgana's hands have found Kayle's wrists, her cool touch closing about them, more the suggestion of restraint than anything. Even with the magical power now so apparent within her, Kayle knows she can break such a hold with but a twitch.

It's her sister's words that puts a bitter taste in her mouth, the steel in her spine. Morgana believed herself in command? Exactly which of them had fallen to her knees, all of her own accord, apparently so desperate to please?

Kayle's lips bare in a snarl. "Do not assume you have control, sister."

Morgana's hands about her wrists tighten then, and it's Kayle's only warning. With the way her sister all but bleeds power, the spell is wrought to completion before Kayle can think to jerk away. The snare of ancient magic goes tight and hot, fastening her wrists behind her back, and Kayle nearly chokes on her rage.

She snarls down into Morgana's impassive face, straining at the bonds, testing them with every shred of power she can summon, both old and new. Despite the odd angle, the way it hampered her strength and her wings, Kayle's confident it will be enough, and for a long, mindless moment, she believes it is - but the magic doesn't yield to her power or her rage, and she's left panting, stunned silent by her failure.

The magic Morgana has used against her is ancient, smelling of old tomes and forgotten research--and far more powerful than anything Morgana has used before in their mutual games of power and control.

She's the Judicator, Kayle tells herself, swallowing as she watches Morgana smile. There simply isn't _supposed_ to be magic stronger than her own, surprise or no.

But Morgana... Morgana bubbles with magic beneath her flesh. For all that Kayle has become godly, what instead has her sister made of herself?

Balanced precariously on the edge of the altar, Kayle feels sweat prickling on her upper lip, down her throat, the small of her back as Morgana settles between her thighs. She swallows hard, her throat dry, and no matter the way Morgana's mastery galls her, she's still hot with desire and scorching sin.

She watches, struck wordless by the feather-light, teasing touch as Morgana runs the back of her fingers up the inside of her thighs. Morgana's eyes haven't left Kayle's face once however, her gaze unnerving, unyielding, and Kayle finds herself inexorably drawn back to meet it.

Morgana is smiling, Kayle notes with a flash of shame and rage that makes her bare her teeth, makes her taste smoke and blood on her tongue in equal parts. She twists her hands behind her back, fighting again at her bonds until the enchanted armour and magic chafes, but still Morgana's hand moves.

Kayle doesn't know if she's praying to the Maker for absolution or damnation the moment Morgana draws her fingers hard against her, the breath freezing half-formed in her throat, her wings thrown wide and trembling. All thought but Morgana deserts her, and sweat prickles down the back of her neck, in the trail of feathers down her spine.

She doesn't breathe, her gaze still locked on the intense blue of Morgana's eyes, the vicious curl of her lips, but her mind is locked on the slow exploration of those fingers against her, languid and unhurried. She arches, her hips jerking forward before she can take command of herself.

Morgana exhales, a sound Kayle has long since known to take as laughter, and she feels her cheeks flush hot. In this moment, there is nobody in this world that Kayle hates more - or loves so completely. She wets her dry lips with the tip of her tongue as Morgana's touch lingers, and she clenches and unclenches her hands behind her back, inhaling sharply through her nose as it strays lower.

"I've never been so fond of sharing you, sister," Morgana remarks, drawing two fingers along the edge of Kayle's entrance, so close and yet still so far from giving Kayle what she needs. "Especially not with those fools."

"Fools?" Kayle manages to demand, but her voice is hoarse and lacks conviction when she's too busy watching Morgana lean forward, when her entire body twitches at the press of open-mouthed kisses up the inside of her thigh. She exhales irritably, the sound of it ragged. "Those are your rightful--" 

"Rightful idiots, perhaps." Morgana pauses then as she leans in, dragging the wide flat of her tongue against Kayle's folds for one stroke, two, before withdrawing again. Her eyes flicker back up to Kayle's then as she adds, "You're better than what they deserve to lay claim on."

Morgana's fingers push into her then and Kayle jerks, tensing, exhaling sharp and hot into the cool air. It's almost too much - more than she's had in so many years - but her sister hesitates only for a moment, her fingers moving slick and easy as though made to fit. The sound Morgana makes in the back of her throat vibrates through her breath and lips at Kayle's clit, the self-satisfied curve of them makes Kayle wish so dearly to twist her fingers in Morgana's hair until it flickers and dies.

After a moment, Morgana withdraws her fingers, rocking back on her heels and holding her hand out before her, wet and gleaming with the irrefutable evidence of their shared sin. She arches an eyebrow, and while Kayle flushes hot, she doesn't shy away. Not from Morgana.

"As if they can ever truly lay _claim_ ," Morgana says, her voice pitched dark and possessive. Her fingers slide against Kayle once again, the touch of them cold from the open cathedral air.

"Enough words," Kayle forces out, hoarse and breathless, arching back at the sudden stretch and twist of Morgana's thrust, her wings extending out, every feather prickling at attention and trembling. With her hands bound, cramping the flight muscles in her shoulders, she's trapped here, at the mercy of her sister's lazy ministrations and barbed taunts.

Kayle's hips rock as she strains against her bonds, desperate to set her sister to a pattern that would satisfy the bone-deep hunger now gripping her, but Morgana resists from what has to be spite alone. The lap of her tongue is gentle, a mockery that belies her possessiveness, her mastery of this whole encounter. The fingers she's still got within Kayle are damningly, infuriatingly still, and Kayle feels herself clench around them, impatient.

Heat coils deep in her gut, flaring more brightly than even divine fire, but it's not enough, _never_ enough, and Morgana knows it. Morgana _wants_ it, wants her weakness, her capitulation.

Breathless and angry, she meets Morgana's blue eyes, colouring again.

"Morgana--" Kayle cuts off breathlessly, twisting into the heavier stroke of Morgana's tongue. Determined to maintain equilibrium, some iota of control, she exhales sharply through her nose as she snaps, "I will not beg this of you."

Morgana's answering murmur sounds nearly amused.

"Proud as ever," Morgana says, and the pattern of her thrusts changes, as if testing Kayle's resolve the same as the Maker has tested her faith. "Even when bending your stiff neck only stands to benefit you."

Kayle shudders as Morgana adds another finger, another promise yet to be filled, but it's the slide of insistent fingertips against the contours of her underwing coverts that snatches the breath from her lips. Morgana's careful fingers smooth down feathers, shifting them aside with unerring precision to instead seek the impossibly sensitive flesh beneath.

A tiny sound wrests its way free of Kayle's throat at the touch, weak and devastatingly needy, her mind growing fuzzy from it, her thoughts turning to smoke. Instinctive, her thighs shift wider, her body begging for anything and everything Morgana deigns to give her.

Morgana laughs at that, her breath hot against Kayle's wetness. She's not going to accept a silent plea, and while Kayle is proud, impossibly so - it has been one thousand years of abstinence.

Already pushed to the brink by the Rites, Kayle's will shatters, all thoughts of control and power fleeing.

"Morgana," Kayle manages, and the scrape of her armour scraping against the stone altar seems distant as she rises onto her toes, desperate for leverage, pressure that Morgana simply will not allow her. " _Please._ "

The sound Morgana makes against her is pleased, and rather than setting the pace Kayle craves, instead she pulls back. Kayle's stomach twists indignantly, but the feeling is short-lived as Morgana plants her hands at the altar either side of her hips, rising up to claim her mouth in a kiss. It's messy and raw with teeth, stinging in the cut from earlier, and Kayle can taste herself in the slide of Morgana's tongue against her own.

She groans into her sister's mouth, feeling a tremble start up in her thighs and wings at the insistence of the kiss, and it's only then that Morgana withdraws, breathless, swiping at Kayle's lower lip with her thumb. Her smile is sweet, but it's only on the surface, only to hide the sin.

"Perhaps you've not yet forgotten your manners after all," Morgana says, pressing a kiss to the shell of Kayle's ear.

Kayle shivers, swallowing as she tracks the wet trail of Morgana's fingers back across her thigh. She's lost all shame as she rolls her hips into the firm touch against her, expectant and demanding.

"Better," Kayle gasps against Morgana's throat, arching hard into the relentless pump of fingers. The tremble in her thighs has doubled--tripled--her calves aching from the strain of keeping her upright and steady.

"Admittedly, I had wondered if so much time had gone by you'd simply... forgotten what to do," Morgana tells Kayle, breath hot and rapid against her ear as she works. "You are somewhat quieter than usual. A shame--you've always cried out so prettily."

"Not here," Kayle snaps back, and it's too late to simply rubbish the notion as impossible. Traitorous thoughts of defiant followers are enough to send cold ice down her spine, and she bites on her lower lip, tasting iron blood.

Morgana sets her mouth against Kayle's throat then, her tongue twisting against the pulse. Kayle nearly doesn't notice the way her other hand settles against the armoured plating where wing met flesh, the fingernails drumming sharp, metallic and threatening in the silent cathedral, before dipping beneath.

Kayle can't help the strangled sound in her throat as those fingertips dig firm into the soft flesh, rubbing tiny circles between down and feathers. Wings shuddering, she bucks down into Morgana's hand, against the thumb waiting at her clit. It's too much, and Kayle cries out, loud and wanton.

"Perhaps I want you to cry out so loudly your little followers do come see," Morgana breathes, her voice tight as she cards her fingers through feathers, her other hand finally setting the tempo Kayle has craved for a thousand years. "Perhaps I want them to see you like this, their precious new Judicator riding her sister's fingers, in the plain sight of all your patron saints."

Even the thought of her followers discovering her - like _this_ , corrupt and flawed and at the mercy of her own flesh - is not enough to quell the scorching fire set alight in Kayle's stomach.

If her followers found out what Morgana was to her, how weak she is to her storm sister alone, they'd surely use it against her, abandon her, doubt her. It's a real threat. But she could stop Morgana with but a word if she so cared.

Sweat gathers on her upper lip, at the base of her spine, beneath her gauntlets as she clenches her hands to fists. She can stop this, yes. But she _needs_ this, the release only granted to her by her sister, who knows her body like no other.

It's finally enough.

"Morgana, I--" Kayle chokes on her own words, her body seizing up. She climaxes with a guttural, ugly sound, one that tears its way free of her throat and her control. For one long moment, she can't see for the white static in her eyes and flesh, the deep hum of it all going down to her bones. 

"Congratulations on your _divinity_ , sister," Morgana murmurs against her ear, and Kayle still can't rally enough to do much more than shiver as the hand between her legs withdraws. She cups Kayle's jaw gently, and her touch is even loving as she dusks her thumb across a cheekbone, but it belies the wicked curl of her mouth. "I do hope it's worth it."

Kayle can't seem to find the words to reply immediately, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, her breath still struggling to slow. She jerks the moment her wrists come unbound, and it's from Morgana's support alone that she remains upright at all.

Silent, Kayle looks down at her hands, at where the unmarred golden armour--a gift from the Maker, a symbol of her might, her power--was supposed to defend her. Even if her sister had taken her by surprise, she should not have had the power to hold Kayle. Not now.

Kayle exhales. She _must_ do something about Morgana--about the temptation, the weakness, the dissention she represents. And now the opposing _power_. If Kayle is to become a new world order, then...

Her gaze flickers up to Morgana's, to where her sister watches her, expectant. For all her sardonic smiles and razor tongue, Morgana is her sister, her mirror reflection. Kayle feels her gut tighten.

Perhaps she'll think on this another time.

Now free, Kayle turns, taking her sister's face in the both of her hands, the gold of her gauntlets gleaming against blonde hair.

Kayle hesitates then, her breath is still too ragged, her armour feeling too heavy and tight for her body, but all of that fades away as she kisses Morgana, hot and hungry.

Morgana murmurs against her throat in approval as Kayle's gloved hand finally slips between her legs, unguarded for now, trusting.

"You'll see soon enough, sister," Kayle rasps, finally finding her voice. "I promise."


End file.
